Waiting For the Break
by InterNutter
Summary: Rated for swears. Todd's sick and it's Wanda who has to look after him. Minor Tonda fluffiness within.


Disclaimer: The plotbunny belongs to Foxglove, aka Dendraica, and you can see it at her Deviant Art account. Just look for Dendraica. Yay Foxy! The characters belong to Marvel and Warner Brothers'... but the story is mine - ALL mine! BWA-hahahahahahahaha...  
  


Waiting For the Break  


  
InterNutter  
  
Wanda Maximoff opened her door with her fist cocked and ready to punch the lights out of the first Toad she saw. And, for a change, there was no-one there.  
No Toady Todd.  
No posies of wilting wildflowers left under her keyhole.  
No pathetic little gifts either stolen or crafted from things sane people would throw away.  
No construction card hearts with sappy poems on them.  
At. Fucking. Last.  
Wanda breathed a sigh of intense relief and enjoyed a quiet, Toad-free morning. She made her own coffee and breakfast in perfect quiet. She even enjoyed a meal in peace.  
Someone on the couch moaned. It was not the moan of a well person.  
Knowing her cohabitors as she did, it was probably Lance or Pietro after an all-night bender. Normally, she'd have been nasty to the sufferer - on the basis that anyone plagued by a Toad had the right to spread the misery around. But this morning... she was feeling a kinder and gentler person.  
She found the asprin and washed out a glass before filling it with water. Wanda took it to the couch... and then found that the occupant was none other than the missing Toad.  
Wanda contemplated emptying the glass and putting the asprin back.  
Toad rolled over in his sleep, kicking the blanket down.  
He'd taken off his shirts, revealling a network of old scars and some new bruises.  
His skin was flushed and covered with a fine sheen of sweat... yet he'd kept his jeans, socks and - oddly enough - the spiked bracers on his wrists on.  
  
"Hey."  
"...fuggoff'mtryin'asleep..."  
"Toad's dead."  
Lance snorted awake. "Whut?"  
Wanda was standing in his doorway. "Or something within the range of it. He sacked out on the couch and he's not waking up."  
"Aw, Godfuckingdamnit..." Lance whined, hauling himself out of bed. "Can't anything go right?"  
"Here," she hit him in the face with a pair of boxers. "Put these on before somebody laughs, okay?"  
Shit. Fuck. He was naked. He fumbled into the boxers and sleepwalked out into the common room.  
True enough, Todd was sick and not faking it. He was shivering enough to make Lance pull the rumpled blanket over him.  
"Tried giving him asprin?"  
"That'd mean having to touch him," said Wanda. "No way."  
He peeled open one of Todd's eyes. "Hey. Wake up."  
"...uurrrh?"  
"Ya gotta take some asprin, okay? You're not well."  
"...uhuh..." He levered himself up into a half-sitting position, downed the pills and the water, then flopped back into the greasy-looking pillow that was his headrest.  
"First one's free," said Lance. "You're looking after him. If he ain't better tonight, we'll come up with something. Or something."  
"I'm doing what?"  
"House rules. Whoever finds the sickie - looks after the sickie. Remember? I had to look after Fred when he had that stomach bug."  
"Ohyeah. I'll never look at a slicker the same way again."  
"Hasta mañana..." he stumbled back to bed for another few minutes' rest.  
  
Who knew that midday TV would suck so badly? Jerry Springer, Ricki Lake, Oprah, soap, soap, soap, soap, news, documentary, some saccharine-loaded kidvid, soap... and back to Jerry fucking Springer. Fuck.  
Wanda turned the tube off and scraped together some chicken soup for the invalid.  
It was standing, waiting to cool when she heard him talking.  
"...so sorry, ma... didn' mean it... i try t' change back..."  
She leaned on the back of the couch, steeled herself, and felt his forehead. He was pretty hot.  
"...pl'se don' die, ma... don' gotta do it... 'm sorry..."  
"Sshhh..." she soothed. "It's going to be okay."  
His eyes flickered. "Ma? 'Tcha doin' 'ere?"  
"Made you some soup," she said. Try to sit up and I'll give you a bowl."  
"...uhuh..."  
She gave him a small portion, which he ate like an arthritic old man.  
"You awake, now?"  
"...Uhrh," he shrugged. "Guess. Sorry 'bout... y'know... whatever."  
She shrugged back. "You're sick. Stuff happens."  
Toad untangled himself from the blanket and shuffled down the hall.  
Wanda was very, very glad she didn't need to help him in the bathroom. Urgh.  
All the same... his fevered mumblings had evoked something in her. Whether memory or nightmare, it said something about the Toad's invisible past. He was the one member of the Brotherhood who never said very much about his family.  
In fact, she only remembered him saying something about his Mom... and then, only once.  
"Todd?" she said when he shuffled back.  
"...urh?"  
"Where is your family?"  
"...city mortr'y," he flumped back onto the couch.  
Wanda tucked the blanket around him. "You're lucky they aren't around to screw you over."  
"...mmmh."  
  
When the others came home, that evening, they found the two of them asleep. Toad comfortable under the blanket on the couch, and Wanda propped up against the same piece of furniture, her head resting near Todd's chest.  
"Don't wake 'em," whispered Pietro. "We don't want this to blow up."  
  
Ende! 


End file.
